I Don't Want to Talk About It
by cactusnell
Summary: Sherlock decides that actions speak louder than words, but how far can Molly go without some discussion about their relationship?


The detective and the pathologist sat in silence on the couch in the latter's sitting room, displaying varying degrees of interest in the images flitting on the telly screen before them. The petite woman was enthralled by the image of the tall slender man in the pinstriped suit as he ran in and out of an impossible blue box. Meanwhile, the tall, slender man in the black tailored suit sitting next to her was more entranced by the blatant disregard of scientific principles displayed on the screen. And just as enthralled by his pathologist.

Sherlock Holmes had lately come to the conclusion that he had passed up many opportunities in his life due to his inherent faults, or at least one of his inherent faults. Sherlock found himself thinking entirely too much. He would conduct an internal dialog, or an external one, debating points, pointing out pros and cons, weighing options until the moment had passed. He could only imagine how much he had denied himself by this practice, and was now, once again conducting an internal dialog about discontinuing this conduct, at least in certain circumstances. And somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard the Elvis Presley of his parents' record collection singing, to a hip gyrating rhythm, "A little less conversation, a lot more action." The fact that, in the mental image, it was his mother doing the hip gyrating was a bit more than disturbing. No wonder he and Mycroft had mummy issues!

The program had drawn to a conclusion. The giant spidery looking thing, and her millions of offspring, had been consigned to eternal rest, and the runaway bride, minus a traitorous groom, had been returned to her home. Molly was still talking about how "adorable" this doctor person was, and Sherlock was lecturing her on the inherent complications of time travel, neither actually paying much attention to the other's arguments. The small woman, stifling a yawn, announced it was past her bedtime.

"You're welcome to spend the night, Sherlock. You know where everything is. Good night."

The detective did, indeed, know where everything was, as he had often used her flat as a bolthole, or simply a home away from home. But this night, Molly found him following close behind as she headed toward her room, and not on his way down the small hall to the spare bedroom, as was his custom. He was still behind her as she opened her door and, surprisingly, still there when she turned to confront him. She hadn't even managed to get out a single word, when he wrapped his arms around her and brought his lips down, rather enthusiastically, on hers.

Molly managed to disengage as he walked her persistently backwards towards her bed. "Sherlock…"

"Shhhsh, Molly," was his only response, as the back of her legs made contact with her mattress, and she felt herself gently guided downward.

"Sherlock!"

"Molly, for god's sake, shut up! If we discuss this, we may find a way to talk ourselves out of it! And I really don't want to talk myself out it, Molly." His voice was now muffled, as his lips were grazing her neck, before finally landing once again on her not-too-small mouth. "So, Dr. Hooper, I really don't want to talk about it!" His hands were now inside her tee shirt, and lifting it upward.

"Sherlock…" The pathologist started to speak once again, but stopped as one of his hands worked its way inside the waist of her sweatpants.

"Shhhsh, Molly. As I said, I don't want to talk about it," the detective said once again in a seductively low voice.

So they didn't talk about it .

And they didn't talk about it the next night.

Or the next.

Or the following week.

Or that Wednesday afternoon in Molly's office, or any other occasion. They never talked about it. All Molly knew was that she would wake up the next morning alone. Until one morning, she didn't.

Sherlock had paid her a visit the night before, and a wonderful night it had been, as usual. But when Molly awoke on this particular morning, she smelled freshly brewed coffee. She rose from her bed in a fog and made her way to the kitchen to find her detective fussing over her toaster while sipping a mug of her Colombian brew.

"Sherlock, what are you doing here? You never stay."

"Hush, Molly."

"But you've made coffee. And toast. And waited for me to get up…"

Sherlock made his way to the table, placing a cup a coffee and two pieces of warm toast in front of his pathologist. He leaned in, kissed her on her forehead, and said, "I don't want to talk about it," before he disappeared into the bathroom to take a shower. Molly stared after him, ignoring her makeshift breakfast, and smiled.

A few months later, Sherlock was once again sitting on Molly's couch, watching a documentary in which neither one of them was really interested. It had really just been another excuse to spend time at the flat. Molly had disappeared into the bathroom, and it had just occurred to the detective that it was taking an inordinate amount of time for her to perform the usual function. The door opened quietly, and Molly appeared, smiling tentatively, and, it must be said, quite apprehensively. And she was holding a small plastic stick in her right hand. A plastic stick with a rather ominous cross in the little window on its handle.

"Sherlock…"

He was on his feet and was across the room almost before she finished saying his name. She looked up at him with joy in her eyes, but with some small amount of fear causing her lips to tremble slightly. And Sherlock looked down at her, once again not giving in to the temptation to debate with his inner self. He smiled at her, wrapped her in a giant hug, and muttered, "I don't want to talk about it." And then let out a loud yelp as he swung her about the room, causing Toby, her faithful cat, to howl his displeasure and retreat to the spare room. Within a few seconds, Molly was giggling and Sherlock was showering her with kisses. And yet again, they did not talk about it.

In another few months, Molly Hooper had almost become a regular fixture at 221B Baker Street, shuffling in and out, picking up and delivering body parts for experimentation. Had Mrs. Hudson not been so firmly, but mistakenly, convinced about Sherlock's sexual orientation, she may have caught on earlier as to why Molly's baggy jumpers had become even baggier over the course of the past few weeks. And that some of the body part's Molly was delivering for Sherlock's delectation were, in fact, her own. As it was, it had taken her quite some time to approach Sherlock, looking, perhaps, for a bit of gossip.

"Sherlock, have you noticed anything different about Molly?"

"Whatever do you mean, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Well, she seems to have put on a bit of weight, don't you think? Molly's always been such a tiny thing. Almost too thin, if you ask me! But lately, I've begun to notice a bit of, well, a weight gain, in, uh, a particular area, so to speak…"

"Spit it out, Mrs. H.! What are you implying?"

"Could Molly be, uh, pregnant, Sherlock? Has she been seeing someone? Has she confided in you, maybe. I do so hate to see her hurt…"

"What makes you think she would be hurt, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Well,luv, I hate to be indelicate, but everybody knows that Molly has always had a soft spot for you. Even if you were never interested in, uh, her, or any other woman, for that matter. And she seems to be visiting quite a bit lately." The elderly woman was now looking down at her feet, as if the conversation was making her more than a bit uncomfortable. "Sherlock, I don't know how to say this. I know you wouldn't hurt her on purpose. But don't let her get the wrong idea, you know. She may be looking for someone right now, to help her, you know. And she is very vulnerable. And I know you've never really gotten over John. But don't let her convince herself that there is something more…"

"Mrs. Hudson, for hopefully the last time, I'm going to tell you, once and for all, that I am not gay. John and I were not lovers. And I am most definitely not pining away for an attractive, kindly, and short doctor!" Sherlock congratulated himself on his turn of phrase, for, in fact, the object of his affections was, indeed, an attractive, kindly, and short doctor, although not of the persuasion his landlady which had in mind. He had made his declaration, informing his landlady quite definitely of his own sexual preferences. She, in turn, had noted Molly Hooper's increased visitations, and had hinted that she believed the petite woman to be pregnant. The detective waited in his chair for Mrs. Hudson to put two and two together, and come up with four. She however, having apparently failed maths at school, reached an entirely different conclusion.

"Perhaps it was some sort of artificial insemination, Sherlock, if she doesn't have a boyfriend. She is getting up there, after all. Maybe she wants to have a child before it's too late, and decided to go that route. I suppose she'll tell us when she's ready, then. Then we can…" But the elderly woman was interrupted by slight snicker as the man across the room said, "I really don't want to talk about it, Mrs. Hudson!"

It was several weeks later that John Watson brought up the subject on one of his increasingly rarer visits to his former flat. John had become ever more occupied with his own demanding family life. He and Sherlock were still, undeniably close, still best friends, but their up close and personal interactions had been falling off lately. But this was a rare Friday evening when Molly had other plans, evidently with John's wife, Mary, to whom she had grown quite close, and John and Sherlock found themselves conversing over a glass of Scotch in the sitting room at 221B

"Sherlock, don't you think it's about time we talked about the elephant in the room…"

"What elephant, John. I see no pachyderm."

"Molly Hooper, you git!"

"John, really, while I will admit that Dr, Hooper was put on a bit of weight lately, I hardly think she has reached elephantine proportions…"

"Sherlock, she's pregnant! She's got to be pregnant. Or else that is one of the largest tumors known to mankind. Or womankind!"

"Has she confirmed her condition to you, or to your wife, John?"

"No! All she will say is, 'I don't want to talk about it'!" Sherlock couldn't help but smile as John repeated his own words back to him.

"So where are you getting your information?"

"Well, not from you, obviously, Mr. World Famous Detective! Mrs. Hudson said you knew nothing. And that Molly had gotten pregnant by artificial insemination, or some such. I suppose that makes sense. She's often told Mary she wanted a child. She can't get enough of our Claire, after all. But why hasn't she discussed this with anyone? We're her friends, dammit!"

"Maybe she just wants to live in the moment, John, doesn't want to hear any negatives. Such as how hard it's going to be. Or what a huge responsibility. Or commitment. If's she's happy the way things are, let her be happy. Maybe she doesn't want to hear the voice of reason…"

"Sounds like you've given this some thought, mate. Do you know something I don't know? Has she told you something?"

"Really, John, I know you mean well, but I feel I should repeat Molly's words, and tell you that I don't want to talk about it."

John looked at his best friend, and realized that that was as much as he was ever going to get out of him. He really had no idea what the detective knew about Molly's current condition, or her state of mind, but he did know that he wouldn't get another word out of Sherlock Holmes. _Perhaps,_ he thought with a sigh as he drained his glass and prepared to leave, _yes, perhaps Mary would have better luck with her companion for the evening._ But when he joined his wife at home, he quickly discovered that Molly was as tight lipped as Sherlock about the situation, refusing to confirm or deny any of their speculations.

Soon after John left the flat, Sherlock put down his glass and climbed the stairs to John Watson's old bedroom. He had installed a new lock on the door to keep nosy landladies at bay. It probably would have been sufficient to inform her that he had removed some of his more noxious experiments to the upstairs room, but he was leaving nothing to chance. He sat himself down in the middle of the room, toolbox at the ready, to continue his work on constructing a nursery for his Molly and their coming child. And, like the seven dwarves in the Disney film, he actually whistled while he worked.

Several more months later, John Watson received an enigmatic text from his best friend.

NEED YOU AT ST. BART'S IMMEDIATELY - SHERLOCK

Which was quickly followed by another.

BRING MARY - SHERLOCK

PLEASE - SHERLOCK

John had received many such peremptory texts in the past, but the addition of the word "Please" made it seem all the more urgent in the doctor's eyes. He gathered up his wife from the clinic at which she was working that afternoon and, wife and infant daughter in hand, hurriedly made his way to St. Bart's. Exiting the parking facility and making his way to the morgue, which was the domain of Molly Hooper, and collaterally, Sherlock Holmes, he was interrupted by another text.

ROOM 422 - SHERLOCK

Evidently Sherlock was not to be found in the morgue. Suddenly, John realized what was going on. Room 422 was part of the maternity wing. Molly must have gone into labor. She had looked close the last time Mary and he had seen her, about ten days ago. She had been happy, and healthy, and as close-mouthed as ever. John grabbed his wife's hand, and, hurriedly explaining the latest text, dragged her and their sleepy child into the nearest elevator. Quickly finding the appointed room, John and Mary burst through the door, to be faced not with a scene of shuffling staff, a huffing and puffing laboring mother, and a detached detective, but one of almost domestic bliss. Molly was resting comfortably on the bed, smiling almost beatifically, while Sherlock was cradling a small bundle in his arms and bouncing about the room, rocking the infant with his movements. Mycroft Holmes stood beaming over his younger brother's shoulder as John and Mary approached to get their first look at Molly's newborn. They looked down at the small child with the shockingly full head of unruly dark curls, and Sherlock studied their faces as the penny dropped. He was slightly gratified that at least two of his friends could put two and two together and come up with four.

"We're naming him John Mycroft Holmes," Molly laughed from her bed. "And we'd like you to be his godparents, if you agree?"

Mary nodded enthusiastically, and shoving her own child into her father's arms, made a grab for the sleeping infant, whom Sherlock reluctantly yielded.

"Sherlock?" John spoke to his friend in an almost menacing tone.

The consulting detective looked at his friend, slightly embarrassed, and looking for some sign that the doctor understood his strange behavior over the past months. He really couldn't explain it himself, but it almost seemed as if he was afraid to acknowledge what was going on, afraid that by speaking about it, acknowledging his happiness, it would embody that happiness enough for some dark specter to come and snatch it away. It was totally illogical, a condition composed entirely of emotion and sentiment, and Sherlock knew he was not very good with either of these things. He found himself looking his best friend in the eye, and saying, "I don't want to talk about it, John."

John returned his look, and some part of him seemed to understand, at least on some level. He threw his arms around his best friend and gave him the most sincere congratulatory hug he could manage with the much taller man.

Mycroft Holmes had done them the service of providing for a legal waiver of the waiting period for marriage applications, and, unbelievably, John and Mary now found themselves witnesses at a maternity bedside wedding. It was very brief. When the officiant started asking, "Do you, Mary Elizabeth Hooper take this man William Sherlock Scott Holmes..", she interrupted immediately with, "You bet I do!", which the groom responded to with, "Me, too!"

Mycroft led the man away from the bedside, with the consoling words. "I'll take care of everything, Mr. Craft. Just show them where to sign, and leave the paperwork to me."

While the newlyweds signed on the dotted line, John and Mary Watson fought over little John Mycroft Holmes, as Mycroft was left to hold onto a drooling, and possibly wet, Claire Watson. Sherlock once against kissed his new wife, and babbled on, "They'll let you come home to Baker Street tomorrow, Molly. Little Jack can sleep in our bedroom for now. I've bought a portable cot. The nursery is all ready to go in John's old room. I've had some of my homeless network move your clothes, and other necessities to Baker Street. Including the cat, not to worry! Mrs. Hudson will be a bit curious, needless to say. She will probably consider you the most accommodating beard in the history of London…"

And Molly Hooper, now Holmes, was happy. Sherlock had always said he didn't want to talk about it, and she had always known that, as far as Sherlock was concerned, actions spoke louder than words. And, while he never said a word, he had been building a home and a life for them all along, as she had always trusted he would. She couldn't stop smiling. She loved hearing the phrases, "home to Baker Street", and "our bedroom". She was still smiling when her new brother-in-law leaned over the bed to kiss her on the forehead, just as Sherlock always had done, before he had graduated to more interesting places.

"My felicitations, Mrs. Holmes," Mycroft said with a sincere smile. He then turned to his brother, "Sherlock, I am to inform you that Mummy expects you to present her grandson at the family home at your earliest convenience. I don't expect she meant the word 'convenience' literally, brother. I suggest you get your arse to Surrey, spawn in tow, as soon as physically possibly!"

On hearing these words, his wife became a bit nervous. "Sherlock, is there a problem?"

"Not to worry, Molly. Mummy adores you. She always has. But me…"

"What?"

"Believe me, Molly, when I say, I don't want to talk about it!"


End file.
